


Since can't remember when

by qwertysweetea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1940s, Dancing, Dorks in Love, Feel-good, Feelings, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romantic Friendship, Short & Sweet, Slow Dancing, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, World War II, the tiniest bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 08:37:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20005432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: "Angel’s don’t dance Crowley.”“And Demon’s don’t dance well.” The other remarked.It might have taken a great deal of courage, then again it might not have. It was all forgotten the moment he reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand in his own.They're walking past a dance hall when that little feeling Angel's get that is the opposite of 'this place is scary, stay away' catches and tangles him up. Post-World War II London is recovering and allowing itself time to be happy; Crowley thinks Aziraphale should do the same.





	Since can't remember when

**Author's Note:**

> Song: It's been a long, long time (Harry James and his orchestra ft. Kitty Kallen)

The tune was similar enough to be reminiscent, different enough to stop the dissociation from dragging him into the depths of his mind. It was joyous, romantic; Aziraphale could feel the love oozing from the words, flying from her mouth and sweetening the air around them. That, and the people.

He had stopped in the middle of the path, caught in the music that teemed from the open door of the dance hall, in the enjoyment, exhilaration, affection of those within. It buzzed with it. It certainly had been a long, long time. An infinitely long life did not make him immune to the pass of time nor the emotion it could produce. He felt it swell where his heart sat.

Crowley knew instantly the other was no longer by his side; he took several steps more before he was sure the other had no intention of catching up to him. He stopped, spun on the spot, and faced the glowing daze on his friends face.

Arizaphale looked caught in a dream, his eyes sparkling with an energy Crowley hadn’t seen on him before. It was beautiful to look at. A gentle blush touched his cheeks with heated excitement, the type that flushed over humans as they stood on a dance-floor, music booming and air stirred. Crowley swore he saw him swallow thickly, his finger twitching by his side, even from several feet away he could feel the desire pulling him towards the doors.

When Crowley joined him, it hadn’t shifted from his face. If anything it seemed to be inset, as though the sculptor who had created him had taken great care to instill in on his features permanently.

He likes him like this. This is how Angel’s should be. Not angry, not anxious, not listless but overwhelmed in the best ways, full of adoration. Before this moment he would have given anything to see Aziraphale look upon the world the way he looked upon good food and his treasured books; now, he would give anything to see Aziraphale look upon the world the way he stares through the door of the Leicester Square dance hall they stood in front of.

“Everyone's happy.” The words left his mouth light, whimsical, and utterly lost.

Had he remembered to start breathing again, it would have caught in Crowley’s throat.

“They’ve all faced a great tragedy,” Aziraphale continued, “but for tonight they’re allowing themselves to be joyful. There’s a beauty in that.”

“We could always go in.” The other suggested.

“Don’t tempt me,” Aziraphale replied, a frown tugging at his brow, voice deep and solemn. “I’ve made a home here but that doesn’t mean I’m a part of this. No, this isn’t for me. I don’t…” He paused, jaw tensing and relaxing rhythmically, as though it caused him physical pain to think “I don’t belong in there.”

“I don’t think anyone deserves to be in there more than you do, angel.”

Aziraphale let go of a stuttered sigh, needing to release tension in his chest but it did nothing. “I... I can’t. Angel’s don’t dance Crowley.”

“And Demon’s don’t dance well.” The other remarked.

It might have taken a great deal of courage, then again it might not have. It was all forgotten the moment he reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand in his own.

A simple step towards him and then a step back; he repeated the motion twice more before lifting their joined arms as far above their heads as Aziraphale’s short one would allow, and ducked his head to spin underneath it.

He came to stop, rocking back on his heels, and added: “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t.”

The Angel stared back in wonderment. He swallowed again, caught somewhere between his mind and the atmosphere; Angelic restraint and pressing need. He was looking at Crowley, or at least somewhere in the static air between Crowley’s face and his own.

He was ignorant to everything that wasn’t that beautifully overwhelming feeling soaking into him through every pore and the sinfully soft hand in his, stood out the evening streets of Leicester Square, surrounded by the bustle of post-war life as shamelessly as if they had been stood in the back room of his bookshop, doors closed and curtains drawn. Couples and groups of excited young women moved past them and disappeared into the mellow music beyond.

Hand-in-hand, Aziraphale allowed Crowley’s gentle tug to bring their chests together. It wasn’t natural for them as it was for humans, but Arizaphale knew that he wanted to place his hand on the other’s hip just as readily as Crowley knew he wanted to embrace the other, wrap an arm around his back and pull him flush into him.

They stand arm-in-arm, the sky above them a soft, summertime darkness. The music almost seemed louder like this, Aziraphale noted.

While he breathed it in, Crowley’s eyes traced over Aziraphale’s features behind his glasses, as ignorant as the other to everything that wasn’t his endearing expressions and the flexes of the hands on him. The street seemed pathed with stars; they were reflected in his eyes. He doesn’t know how lucky he is; if he wasn’t, he might have been lost in how well the music complimented Aziraphale’s breaths, vibrating through his chest into his own.

Crowley leads, and Aziraphale has to push back how grateful he feels to stop the vulnerability crawling up his chest, stop it mingling with all he is absorbing from the air, stop is spreading to every part of him.

They step lazily side-to-side to the gentle drawl of the singer and the orchestra that accompanied her, their actions imperfect, microseconds apart and rigid, disjointed in the best way. It gave Crowley an excuse to hold him that little bit firmer; neither are ready to admit it, and he knows they won’t be for a long time, but both are content.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked reading and have a little spare change, please consider [buying me a coffee.](https://ko-fi.com/erinspiderr) I'm saving up to have my stories proof-read.


End file.
